Terror
by ThatClutzsarahh
Summary: He is the worst kind of monster.


**don't have to say much. just hang on for the ride.**

**i own typos only.**

**

* * *

**

Never in his life has he been cockier.

He is the _only_ man to have families in two worlds, the only man whose commute was between the fabric of _reality_ and through space and _time_ itself. He could be standing in the Department of Defense in one universe and then the next moment could be spent in the gift shop on Liberty Island. It was a feeling that was better than _anything_ else in the world, this feeling of complete control over space. It made him feel powerful and _limitless_.

And he was powerful. He could, if he so desired, destroy a world because he simply wanted too, because he got tired of the people existing in either one. And that was a _head rush_ for him, all that power balancing in his veins and no one could tell him otherwise. If he felt like she had cheated him time with his son in one world, destruction it could be. If he felt like Olivia had shut him out, he could destroy her world. He thought that this power was going to last forever, that he could play God forever.

So it was in the moments when he thought Olivia would not allow him in and he had went back to his original world that she had died.

A few weeks prior he had left with a promise to stay out of her life, and that he was doing _so fucking well_. It was when he had returned after nearly sleeping with her double _again_ that he had to see her off one last time. He was leaving her. No one bothered to tell him. No one bothered to cross the worlds to say to him, she's gone because he was _gone_.

And it was then he discovered that she had died.

He wasn't even there to have her back. Gunned down and executed like an animal, Olivia hadn't a chance to stand up and fight for herself. Her murderers were _cowards, fucking cowards_ that shot her in the back of the head in an attempt to scatter her beautiful brains on the sidewalk and stain it with the sweet sight of her red blood. Instead he was off lying in a bed next to an imposter who loved him. He was so full of _fucking _shit that he couldn't see the pain he had caused originally.

Because after all, he's the _only fucking man_ that commutes between universes

But he couldn't get over seeing her brains on the sidewalk, just lying there so carelessly. Even though he wasn't there to see it, to watch the clean up or investigate, he was there to walk it later, to see the stains that would never fade away. And it was with that he was able to just imagine her mass of long blonde hair, matted, muddy, strewn, blown piece by piece across cold cement that was as unforgiving as him. He wanted right there to punch the cement with his fist until both of them broke.

Of course he'd blame himself.

When he went from the crime scene to her body, cut open and sprawled on the stainless steel table in the morgue that was all he could think about. If he had tried harder, looked harder, _been there;_ then there was, without a shadow of a doubt, no way she'd be here in this unforgiving room, her most intimate secrets exposed. Flesh turned inside out to autopsy her, to find that, they could have tried all they wanted Everything but she would never have children, to see that her heart was so fragile and delicate but as red as his own. The long soft expanse of her stomach turned inside out and red with tissue that was hers and hers only made him want to stitch her back up with his own flesh and pump his own life and blood into her. It was always going to be his fault.

Everyone else knew it too

It wasn't like it was a secret anymore. She loved him. And he loved her, more than he would care to ever admit. But now he thinks _maybe_ if he had bought her that extra dozen of roses once or _maybe_ when she said leave he stayed, maybe they could have meant something. Maybe if he had taken her to that gala when she went alone or if he gone to dinner that one extra night that those could have been the signs. But they are just moments missed. Memories that he'll regret forever.

After all, he was too busy playing father to a son he never wanted to care for her, anyway.

Not like she needed it. She loved him wholeheartedly, every time she _looked_ at him, every time she _smiled _at him, every time she ever said _anything_ it was with her whole heart. It was just who she was. She couldn't give away her love in bits and pieces like he could or like _she_ could. She always made love with everything she had, an intensity that never failed to leave him helpless and breathless, a puddle in the sheets at her place because he nearly lived there now. She kept him close to her because she didn't _want_ to be venerable. But she was, and look where she was now.

It rained the day they buried her.

Big, fat, round raindrops that covered everything, a single clear liquid drop that hit his card and landed on the cheek of her beautiful face and slid down, the ink running and changing colors, bluing out until it reached the end. Everything was underwater to him, all sounds were muted to his own inner silence, his own way of breathing when the tide was over his head. He looked up once, twice maybe, to see Broyles staring at him with an expression that told him what he already knew, he was to blame. But it was Rachel's gaze that killed him. Olivia kept Rachel in the dark, and so Rachel would never know that whole extent of his fault, but with her large green eyes she begged him, begged him to answer the question, _why my sister?_ But what could he tell her? _I spent the whole day she died in bed with the woman that is just like her only sociopathic. And by the way I have son with her because it seems that I love her more._

How many slaps across the face would he get for answering with that?

Or would she just shoot him like Olivia did their stepfather? Everyone knows he deserves it. The service was small and beautiful from the few glances he had been able to sneak when no eyes were waiting for him. A violinist played a melody that was unlike anything he'd every heard, the most beautiful representation of a blonde haired woman encased in lacquered wood and white tulips. He held in his gloved black hands her photo and a flower of his own, a simple lily that he had once tucked behind her ear, dead now, but the pressed flower was gripped tightly. He couldn't put it on her grave. It meant he would be letting her go.

Until tomorrow.

He'd have to go back to his son eventually. Him, the terrifying man, a monster in human skin would return to a world that he was born in to take care of a son that shouldn't have _ever_ happened. He'd go back to sharing a bed with a woman he won't be able to stomach seeing, to live in a tiny apartment flat with _her_ and his son because that's the only way he'd get to see him. He'd be constantly reminded that he was to blame fro her no longer breathing lips, he lifeless skin and green _empty_ eyes. On his way out of the funeral he saw Sam Weiss, the smug bastard, with a smug little smile on his lips. He didn't have to say anything, Peter knew what he had told Olivia, and with two big strides Peter had come face to face with him and hooked him in the jaw with a powerful right blow, sprawling him to the ground. He felt a few knuckles bust, but he welcomed the hiss of pain that he let through his teeth.

So he grips the wheel harder as he drives because the pain is what he will deserve, forever.

When he gets to her place, _their_ place, all hell breaks loose. The moment he's inside he rips at the couch, his shirt thrown over the corner_ carelessly_ and he just rips for it. But the material is too light and makes no satisfying noise as it flutters away from his grasp like she had fluttered away from his life. She was a delicate butterfly he took for granted, gazed at once, twice, and then let her float around him. He had forgotten how fragile she was. He storms for the bedroom and tears at a portrait of them, listening to the glass as it shatters and tears the photo. He kicked open the door and ripped at the drawers, at the sheets, at the curtains until he can't stand and he falls. His fingers are bleeding and staining the white sheet he holds but it doesn't matter anymore.

He deserves it.

He is the worst kind of monster. He is a wolf in sheep's clothing, he is a man that could _literally_ be anywhere at the same time. He is the kind of monster that doesn't care until it is far too late. He is too much like Sam Weiss, a man that was honest on the outside, but was selfish and driven on the inside. Maybe that was why the machine had picked them both. Because they were monsters. Peter is a monster. He will tell his son to beware of the ones under his bed and in his closet when the time comes, but the worst of them all is the one tucking him in safely. He cared too much for himself and not enough about her.

He'll be gone tomorrow morning but it doesn't matter anyway. No one here will want him again. He doesn't want himself again. He has one option now, and as he stands he knocks a box with his foot, spilling out a collection of things of John Scott's and he pauses. A diamond ring, a _fucking diamond ring_, sits among the things. Yes, he is the worst kind of monster.

Marrying her never crossed his mind.

He told himself on more than one occasion he couldn't have lived without her, but now he has no choice.

* * *

Eh fin.

comments? Reviews? Hate? Love? please tell me anything you think, first time writing something like this.


End file.
